


Another Side

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crack, Drag Queens, Fluff and Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 05:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19806073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Aziraphale first discovers the joy of performing in drag during the Prohibition. It doesn't go away.





	Another Side

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I blame this post for this spectacular crock of crack: https://dykecrowley.tumblr.com/post/186188429711/michael-sheen-wanting-to-be-a-drag-queen-for-a
> 
> Anyway, nobody asked for it but here it is. Enjoy!
> 
> (With apologies because I don't actually know very much about drag, let alone historical drag, so I've done my best with the research -and the pronouns- but if I've cocked up anywhere I'm sorry.)

It was the sad demise of the Gavotte that did it, really. Well - that and the fact that Crowley steadfastly refused to visit America during the Prohibition, and Hell kept trying to  _ send  _ him there, which meant that Aziraphale was over there rather a lot as part of the Arrangement.

"It could be rather exciting for you, actually, Crowley," he'd told him during one of their St James' Park meetings, "they're still bringing in all sorts of things - smuggling it into these places called speak easies" - he pronounced the two words distinctly - "where all sorts of crime goes on."

"Well, good for them. It sounds like they've got things ticking over nicely, then; you're needed over there a lot more than me."

_ We could go together,  _ Aziraphale didn't say, because his side wouldn't like it and neither would Crowley's and besides, Crowley was still a little bit cross with him for not giving him his so-called  _ insurance _ . Actually, come to think of it, the last thing Aziraphale wanted was for Crowley to get any ideas about smuggling forbidden liquids.

So Aziraphale went on blessing, and tempting, and thwarting, all by himself in America - Crowley assured him he was on top of things in Europe - and that was how he found himself in an unassuming little bookshop in Chicago, rapping his knuckles against a set of particularly dull-looking encyclopedias. They moved aside, he gave the password he'd recently obtained, and then Aziraphale was stepping into the Green Worm. It was an amusing name, he supposed, conjuring images of a bookworm and the shop's dark green frontage; certainly nobody could forget where the Green Worm was once they knew it. He made his way down two flights of stairs and stopped to stare.

There were people everywhere, men and women, with a smiling man playing the piano as a woman crooned for the crowd. No, not a woman - a female impersonator, of the kind he'd sometimes seen at the discreet gentleman's club, and nobody seemed to be batting an eyelid.

"Guess it's not just the worm that's green," a voice said behind him, "you, sir, look like you've never seen a place like this before."

"Oh, I have - well - not  _ quite _ like this, no."

"Good answer. That's just how it should be, 'cos the Green Worm ain't like any other place. I should know, I'm the manager. Robert King, Bobby to my friends."

"Aziraphale," the angel offered, and was glad that people used all number of unusual names in places like this. King didn't bat an eyelid. “I say, your performer’s rather good.”

“The glamorous Miss Millie? She is rather, isn’t she?”

“She- er, that is-?”

“Oh, I see. First time seeing a female impersonator?” It wasn’t, of course, but Aziraphale nodded weakly all the same. “Yeah, we call her Millie until she takes the makeup off.”

“And then…?”

“That’s her business, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, of course. How enchanting.”

* * *

It wasn’t until some months later that Aziraphale got up the courage to ask if he could have a go. Bobby King was delighted, once he’d heard Aziraphale’s voice, especially since the enchanting Miss Millie had recently taken off to pastures new with her piano player. She’d left some of her wardrobe behind, and a few miraculous alterations soon saw to it that it all fitted Aziraphale like an elegant silk glove. He just wasn’t sure that it suited him; he wasn’t sure he was brave enough to go out on the stage and entertain a crowd, let alone dressed like this. He almost didn’t dare to let Bobby back into the room once he’d changed, but then his eyes settled on a long red wig, discarded in the corner of the dressing room. It was old and matted, and since he’d certainly never seen Miss Millie wear it there was a very high probability that it had been left behind by a previous performer, but when he miracled it clean and wavy and settled it carefully on his head, he felt a thousand times better about the way he looked. He looked…  _ tempting _ .

“Gorgeous,” Bobby assured him, “absolutely stunning. All you need now is a name.”

“...Zira,” Aziraphale decided, after a moment’s consideration, “just Zira.”

If Heaven ever questioned it, Aziraphale would assure them that he was doing his bit to lower temptation levels in the speakeasies by drawing men’s attention away from the actual dancing girls. He hoped they’d never question it, because even he could tell that wasn’t very convincing. The truth was that the female impersonators in these speakeasies were  _ temptresses _ , alluring and sensual in a way that Aziraphale, the principality, was not allowed to be. They were exploring a side of them that they couldn’t embrace under their own names, and Aziraphale wanted that too. He didn’t want to Fall; he’d never want to do that. But he’d been performing minor temptations for years, and now he wanted a safe way to explore just a touch of that devilish side.

“Zira.” Bobby looked him up and down with an appreciative grin. “I like it. The wig’s a nice touch.”   
“It reminded me of a friend,” Aziraphale admitted, “I’ve always admired his hair.”

“Well, it suits you. Ready to make your debut?”

The moment the new pianist started to play, Aziraphale felt transformed. It was Zira who took to the stage, a sensual sway to her hips and a self-assured smile on her face. She wrapped her hands around the stand holding the microphone and sang, sang like her heart would burst with every note, and when she was done, the audience went  _ wild _ . For months, Zira toured the speakeasy circuit, each manager directing her to the next place that was sure to appreciate her performance, and it felt like being part of that wonderful gentleman’s club again. At one club, on one particularly boozy evening, Zira even taught a handful of fans how to dance the gavotte.

And then Prohibition ended, and Inhibitions were back, and Aziraphale folded Zira’s wig and dresses into an unassuming little trunk in the back room of the bookshop in London. He covered it over with a tartan blanket, settled himself back into his angelic, masculine shape, and went on with his life.

* * *

I wasn’t until a few decades later that someone slid a flyer across the counter to him.

“Would you mind putting this up?” Aziraphale looked down at the printed message and frowned; he didn’t see why this was being given to  _ him _ .

“That’s not about books.”

“No, but… well, bookshops in Soho and all that…” The young man who was offering him the leaflet looked embarrassed now, and he seemed about two seconds from stuffing the leaflet back into his pocket and running. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No, no, that’s quite- I mean, some of my customers might- thank you. I’ll put it up in the window.”

The young man left it with him, and he looked at it curiously for a moment.

_ DRAG NIGHT - OPEN MIC - ALL WELCOME - LET YOUR INNER QUEEN REIGN! _

There was a date, and a time, and a venue, and Aziraphale thought that maybe, just to make sure he knew what he was promoting through his very respectable shop, he might pop along just to watch. And, well, if this so-called ‘drag night’ turned out to be a regular thing, perhaps another time Zira could shine again.

* * *

“And now, our star turn of the night, Zira Foxx!” It was a naughty sort of name, which made Aziraphale want to laugh in pure delight every time he heard it. Zira had worked hard to get to the top of her game - poor Crowley had had to do his fair share of the temptations and miracles, for a change, and no doubt it was driving him mad not to know what Aziraphale had been so busy with - and now it was her name on the posters, right below ‘Drag Night’ and right above ‘Open Mic’. Zira waited a few breathless moments for the cheering to die down, then sashayed onto the stage.

“Well, what a gorgeous crowd we’ve got in tonight. I could just eat you up.” She picked a bloke in the front row at random and snapped her jaws at him playfully. “Ooh, but maybe later. Who’d like a song?”

She was halfway through her set, crooning a particularly seductive and sexually-charged version of “I Put A Spell On You” - it was nearly Halloween, after all - when she decided she’d tortured her previous victim enough and went to lock eyes with another audience member. She was drawn to his stillness in a crowd that was having a good time, and her eyes bored into his sunglasses for a moment before she realised who it was.  _ Sunglasses inside _ .  _ Red hair. Expression of shock and, possibly, horror. _ Oh,  _ fuck _ , Crowley was here. She looked away, blushing, and set her sights on someone else - anyone else - instead.

The rest of her set was a blur, and Zira stumbled into the dressing room feeling as though she’d been hit by a train. Ten miraculous seconds behind a curtain later, Aziraphale stumbled out of the back exit - waving vaguely in response to the other ‘girls’ - and vanished himself home. Crowley would drive, if he was coming, but he would drive like the speed demon he was, so Aziraphale had only a minute or two to try to look comfortable, as if he’d never left the shop. He busied himself right at the back of the shop, and checked his reflection in every shiny surface he passed so he could be sure he’d got all his makeup off. The slightest hint of glitter would betray him.

He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want Crowley knowing about Zira, exactly. It wasn’t that he thought the demon would be offended, or anything, nor that he’d be awful about it. It was just that Zira wasn’t  _ Aziraphale _ , she was something different and dangerous and  _ private _ , and he wasn’t sure he was ready to share that yet.

So when Crowley walked into the bookshop and remarked that it wasn’t usually open so late, Aziraphale simply hummed and said something about losing track of time. When Crowley told him he’d been round earlier and it had been closed, Aziraphale mumbled something about a dinner break. And when Crowley nodded, turned on his heel, and left the shop with a careless farewell, Aziraphale didn’t remark upon what a strange visit that had been.

* * *

Crowley wasn’t at the next show, or the next, and Aziraphale began to think he’d got away with it after all. Zira’s popularity only grew, and it was hardly a surprise when invitations began to come in from other clubs, further from home. Aziraphale accepted them all with the delight of someone who feels truly wanted, and went on a sort of impromptu tour of the smaller drag nights in London.

It was at one of those clubs, where she was billed as ‘a very special surprise guest’ after the open mic portion of the evening, that Zira got her first chance in a long time to simply sit in the wings in full makeup and enjoy the show. Normally, Aziraphale would be out in the crowd, cheering on the newcomers, but since Zira’s appearance tonight was a closely-guarded secret, neither of them could be seen out on the floor. She sat in the wings and watched as a procession of timid amateurs picked their way up onto the stage and blossomed into divas before her eyes, and as each left the stage she smiled, congratulated them, and invited them to stand with her for the rest of the show. Most accepted, and there were five or six rather tall women stood behind her when the last rookie of the night was announced.

“We have here a debutante, in every sense of the word, so please make her feel very welcome - I present to you, for the very first time, Miss Angela Crowe!”

A slender blonde walked up the steps to the stage, demure and dainty in a long, flowing white dress that covered her from neck to toe and flared slightly at the wrists. She took her place on the stage to moderate applause, and Zira’s heart went out to her; the poor thing looked terrified, and as the intro to her backing track began, she realised that Miss Angela had chosen an old music-hall song most of the crowd probably wouldn’t even recognise. It was so much easier if everybody was singing along with you, and this terrified lamb wouldn’t even have that.

Then the girl lifted her chin, fixed her eyes straight ahead, and began to sing. Everything changed in an instant; the audience’s attention was caught by her deep, rich voice and the tremulous purity in her tone, only to be held by the realisation that the song she was singing was filth of the first water. It  _ dripped  _ with innuendo, and Miss Angela Crowe performed it exactly as it was meant to be performed - with all the wide-eyed innocence of a baby deer. That was why the audience were captivated; Zira was staring because she  _ knew that voice _ , though she’d certainly never heard it sound innocent. She was glad of her devilish drag persona, because it meant that nobody was in the least bit surprised that she looked as though she’d like to devour the new performer alive.

“Miss Crowe,” she murmured as the woman came offstage, and then, quieter,  _ “Crowley.”  _ Miss Angela Crowe froze as their eyes met, just as Crowley had the first time he’d seen Zira, and Zira took pity on her. “You were simply wonderful, darling.” But there was no time to talk further, because Zira was on.

* * *

Later that night, when Crowley arrived at the bookshop, Aziraphale was waiting for him with a bottle of wine.

“Is that-?”

“Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Yes. I rather think we deserve it, don’t we?”

Crowley settled awkwardly into his usual seat and sighed.

“I would have given you a lift, you know.”

“I know. But I didn’t want the girls to talk, you know how it is.” Crowley shrugged, and Aziraphale realised with a start that of course he didn’t. “Or not. A debutante, they said.”

“Yeah, well, it looked like fun when you did it. Of course, I didn’t pick the furthest possible night from your celebrity turn with seeing you in mind, so that was a shock.”

“I meant it, you know. You were wonderful.”

“Of course I was,” Crowley scoffed, but Aziraphale could see the smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I just hope Hell don’t ask any questions.”

“Heaven hasn’t, yet, and I started in the 1920s. Besides, you can just tell  _ your  _ side you were trying a new approach; nobody could argue that you weren’t temptation itself, out there.”

“Really?” Crowley’s jaw dropped, and it took him a moment to gather it back up. “Well, that’s a shame. I was going for angelic.”

“Oh, you were - really, very impressive - but I’m certain half the audience wanted to ravish you there and then.”

“And you?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale frowned.

“Well, I’d like to think they wanted to ravish  _ me,  _ too, especially since I aim to be an obvious temptress.”

“Oh, that definitely works. I just meant- er. It’s weird, isn’t it? A drag angel and a drag demon?”

“But if it suits us, why not?”

They were quiet for a while, after that, sipping wine, lost in their own thoughts. It was Aziraphale who broke the silence.

“I won’t play that club again, if you like.”

“Oh, I don’t care, not now you know. I might not even do it again.”

“But you enjoyed it! And you’re good at it!” And that was when Aziraphale had the greatest idea he had ever had. “We could do a double act, some time.”

* * *

“Tonight, for one night only… unless it’s popular and we twist their arms…” The crowd chuckled appreciatively and Zira mouthed  _ good crowd  _ to her opposite number in the far wing. “...up-and-coming talent Miss Angela Crowe, and our very own Zira Foxx!”

The Antichrist had been on Earth for two years, but there was nothing they could do about it just now. Crowley had taken his time in deciding whether he wanted to go on with his act, and Aziraphale had waited patiently for him to make a decision. Finally, he had made it. Now, Zira stepped out onto the stage from one side, and Angela stepped out from the other, and for one night the apocalypse could wait. 

For one night, it was time to take the world by storm. 


End file.
